


A Whole Cabinet to Work Through

by otherwiseestella



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Ambrose Spellman is a snack, BDSM, Bathtubs, Butt Plugs, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Fucking, Gratuitous Smut, Light BDSM, Lube, M/M, PWP without Porn, Porn, Restraints, Rope Bondage, Shameless Smut, Shy Ambrose, Top Luke, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: The morning after, he telephones.‘Luke’, he says, stretching lazily against the bedclothes. ‘You left your number.’‘And you found it. Clever warlock’.He can hear the lazy smile in Luke’s voice. He hitches a little breath, and it catches in his raw throat.Luke laughs, ‘You sound like shit’.‘I sound like someone fucked my throat last night.’----The morning after the night before, Ambrose calls Luke, who is only too happy to come over.Whilst he's waiting, Ambrose prepares a little surprise which he very much hopes Luke will enjoy.In which Ambrose gets mouthy, Luke shows him just what he can do, and there are beautiful magical ropes.*This extremely porny porn was inspired by ethereal.otherworldly and their request for more Luke/Ambrose in the fandom. I am so grateful to have such lovely readers and absolutely love writing requests.*





	A Whole Cabinet to Work Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ethereal.otherworldly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ethereal.otherworldly).



The morning after, he telephones.

‘Luke’, he says, stretching lazily against the bedclothes. ‘You left your number.’

‘And you found it. Clever warlock’. 

He can hear the lazy smile in Luke’s voice. He hitches a little breath, and it catches in his raw throat.

Luke laughs, ‘You sound like shit’.

‘I sound like someone fucked my throat last night. Hard.’

There’s a silence on the other end of the line, just a shadow of indrawn breath, and Ambrose lets himself feel a little smug.

‘Oh’, Luke replies, his voice low. There is a slight pause, and then, ‘I’m sorry, Ambrose, if I hurt you. I didn’t mean it… I can be more careful…’

The apology is sincere, but Ambrose can detect just a hint of disappointment.

‘You can bloody well come round tonight, and show me what you’re capable of when you do mean it, is what you can do’, Ambrose says, a little too quickly. A little too keenly. He rolls his shoulders. Don’t blow this, Spellman. Don’t blow this with your need to be – 

‘Fuck, yes.’ And Luke laughs, the noise like a river flowing underground. ‘I hope you’re ready for me.’

Warlocks fuck better than mortals, Ambrose thinks idly, as he tidies. Not that there’s anything wrong with mortals, but they’re so…weak. Fleshy. They lack durability. Not that he’s ever fucked a mortal to death, but there’s always a fear of it. Slower refractions periods, a tendency to bruise when it isn’t the desired effect. There’s certain delectability to ruination, of course, but only when it’s deliberate.

And Ambrose likes to be ruined. He remembers the night he found it out, when he was still so young, his hair in someone else’s fist, face slapped so hard that he came from the pain of it, untouched dick suddenly, suddenly unloading come up his chest in ropes. Casts his mind fondly back over all the partners who’ve given him bruises, who’ve taken the time to draw pain from him, to send him into sweet ecstasies whilst raking nails across his back, drawing beads of blood.

He’s flexible, of course. Bodies are too beautiful, too interesting, to demand the same thing every time. But this is his favourite. And judging from the little clues in Luke’s voice, from the way he’d whispered in his ear last night, a filthy litany of names, the way he’d fucked his throat as if he were little more than an accommodating vessel, Luke might just like it too.

Yes. All things considered, Ambrose is looking forward to seeing Luke.

He prepares properly, tries to quell the excitement – unseemly, really – with routine tasks. Clean sheets on the bed. He checks the bedside cabinet. The restraints are there, the rope neatly coiled, the paddle sitting on the shelf. Lube. First aid supplies. A little ball gag he doubts they’ll use. His plugs. He picks one out – modest sized and marbled in deep greens and blues. Pretty. He slips it into his pocket, and heads into the bathroom.

He runs a bath, deep and filled with bubbles. He slips in, and moans with the swallowing heat of it. The tub is long, claw-footed, and he can stretch his legs out almost entirely. One of the few luxuries Zelda has little choice but to share. He grins. Thank you, Auntie. He imagines the look on her face at the thought of him and Luke sticks his tongue out. He cleans himself thoroughly, taking so much care that he’s tempted, just for a second, to touch himself. He resists.

Afterwards, lying on the sofa, damp, he stretches himself out. Lords, he’s tight. He makes a game of it, to quell the butterflies that are gathering in the pit of his stomach. Oils up a single finger, teases it around his entrance. Feels himself open, give way, feels the incredible tight heat. Crooks his finger, but the angle’s wrong, so he lets himself sit at the edge of too-much and pleasure, working himself open until the plug slips in. He loves this. Feels greedy for it. Shifts the plug inside himself, feel it spark heat up his spine. Stands, slowly, feels it settle as he moves. A little secret. Something for Luke to find later. Always good for boys to give each other presents. Warlocks, he thinks, can be just as sweet as they can be nasty. 

He doesn’t let himself think about regard, about desire that might not align with his, about the sorts of encounter that leave you emptier than before. He can still conjure the taste of Luke’s spend on his tongue from last night, remembers coming across Luke’s stomach, the wicked glitter in his eyes. It will be alright. He’s got this. 

So he’s reading ancient Hebrew when Luke arrives, clattering through the window like a bat with a death wish. Luke whistles through his teeth.

‘Evening, scholar’, he says. ‘You should have told me it was a study date.’

‘I could be persuaded’, Ambrose says, ‘to attend to the more practical aspects of learning.’ He raises an eyebrow, and as his eyes meet Luke’s, both burst out laughing. 

‘I’m here to fuck, Spellman’, Luke smiles. ‘You don’t need to use lines on me.’

‘Oh, but its far more fun when I do, isn’t it? And I’ve been thinking them up for hours.’ 

Luke steps closer to him, reaches his hands out to rest on Ambrose’s hips, through his dressing gown. His grip is promisingly firm. His eyes are glittering, and he licks his lips as he meets Ambrose’s eyes. 

‘So, judging by that phone call, you like it rough, huh?’

Ambrose feels his face flush, feels himself pinking like a schoolgirl on her first day. He opens his mouth to reply something sharp about Luke’s tactlessness, but his tongue seems to have stopped working. He’s used to fucking, though it has been a while. It’s just that he’s not used to talking about it. Explaining it. It makes him feel oddly exposed.

His mouth dry, he nods.

Luke grins at him. Feral. A little hungry. ‘I could throw you through the wall of this house, Ambrose. And you could take it. You’d look pretty surrounded by wreckage, sure, but your Aunts would hate it. So if you want to fuck, properly, if I’m going to mess you up, then I want to know what you like. I want to know where the edges are.’

As he speaks, Luke digs his fingers into Ambrose’s hips. Slowly, painfully. It feels incredible. He can feel the curve of every nail. He hopes there will be marks. He hopes that Luke will give him little bruises.

Somehow, the pain unsticks Ambrose, brings his brain back online. His mouth opens, and before his brain has a chance to process what he’s saying, he’s speaking: ‘No permanent marks. No demons, or other unexpected company. And I can fuck, yeah, but what I want…’

He hesitates. Luke steps closer, until his body is flush with Ambrose’s, his cock hardening against his thigh, his heart – Ambrose can feel it – beating harder, a little, and faster.

‘Yeah?’

‘This isn’t easy’, he says defensively. ‘Talking about it.’

Luke lets the quiet rest between them, presses himself closer, crowds Ambrose with heat and scent until he continues.

‘Bruises’, he whispers. ‘Bruises, names, the way you called me – last time – when I –‘

‘When I called you a dirty little whore, Spellman, and you came all over me like a virgin on his first lay? Yeah, I figured.’

Fuck, if that doesn’t make his cock twitch against Luke’s leg, unmistakeable, its heat suddenly radiant between them, his face flushing too, as if the blood in his body can’t decide where to pool. He can feel, rather than hear, the whimpering noise that his bastard throat lets out. Luke, the shit, only grins, raises an eyebrow.

‘I’m going to ruin you. Have you on your knees for me, huh? You’d like that? Fuck you ‘til your names runs out your head, pretty warlock. Bite your thighs. Come inside you. Make you scream until your aunts come running. Any objections?’

Ambrose wants to check. Wants to ask, somewhere amid the haze of his arousal, what Luke is getting out of this. Wants to make sure he’s happy, that he isn’t secretly hoping for something different, that he doesn’t want….

‘Restraints are in the bedside cabinet. Lube, too. Safe word is mandrake…’, is somehow, inexplicably, what falls out of his mouth instead.

Luke leans forward, so close that his breath is hot over Ambrose’s lips. Then he leans forward, very deliberately, and bites his lower lip, nipping it between his teeth and pulling. The flash of pain is white, and sweet, and Ambrose can feel the sting.

‘Bet you’ve got all sorts of filth in your cupboard’, Luke growls. ‘But I want you on that bed and out of those clothes before I open it.’

Luke stands back far enough to let Ambrose shrug his robe off, to let him kick out of his trousers. He’s wearing nothing underneath, his cock bobbing when he slips the waistband of his trousers down.

Luke lets out a low whistle. ‘Get on the bed. Fuck, you’re nice to look at.’

Ambrose tilts his chin upwards, ready to let out some comeback about Luke, but he watches him raise a finger to his lips. ‘On the bed, Spellman. I’ll let you know if I need you to talk.’

And it's a relief, somehow. Always is, honestly, when someone tells him his clever mouth can stop for a while. That all he has to do is obey. That someone else will call the shots, wipe his brain clean. His body hits the mattress with a soft sound, and it feels like his insides are full of sparks.

In seconds, Luke is on him. Clothed. The roughness of his jeans feels electric across Ambrose’s thighs, and Luke’s shirt tickles across his stomach. He bucks, upward, trying to grind against Luke’s crotch.

Luke grabs his shoulders, then runs his hands along Ambrose’s arms until he reaches his wrists. He grips, hard, and as he does, he parts Ambrose’s legs with his knees, so that they are flush, and Ambrose is spread-legged, exposed. The denim is so rough over his dick, and Ambrose is aware he’s leaking, all over Luke’s trousers, pre-cum steadily beading at his tip. He can feel the sparks that come as Luke grinds against him, over and over, setting the pace. His breath is coming short, ragged, and he wants to complain that it isn’t enough, but he also knows he’s on the cusp of losing control.

The grinding nudges the plug, making it shift within him, and the sudden movement means he whines. Luke, who has been kissing him, hot and wet and sloppy, more teeth than lips, more pressure than neatness, pauses.

‘Something you’re not telling me?’

Luke’s lips are pinked, spit-flecked. Ambrose wants to lick them. Ambrose wants to bite, and suck and –

‘Asked you a question, pretty warlock.’

At this he nods, mutely. Tries to roll over, away from Luke’s piercing stare, but his grip is reassuringly tight on Ambrose’s wrists. Instead, he draws his knees up to his chest. He’s never felt this exposed. Luke leans back to look at him, runs a hand slowly down his thigh, tracing shapes with his nails, and down, down to wear his hand closes round the base of the plug.

Luke glances down at him, then, eyes wide, mouth a wet ring of surprise. Ambrose can feel his fingers at the plug’s edges. He grips, suddenly, and grins down at Ambrose, eyes full of mischief and want. He presses the plug in, deeper, and it feels like he’s somehow reached his centre. Then Luke shifts his hand, angles up, just enough, just right, and Ambrose throws his head back, lets out a breath that’s more moan than anything.

Bloody hell, that feels good, like fireworks at the base of his spine, and the fact that Luke’s in control, gets to dictate the speed and rhythm, makes him feel like he’s perilous, uncurling, on the edge of something.

‘Fuck, Ambrose. How long have you been wearing this?’

Ambrose hopes that his mouth forms an answer, but he’s almost certain it’s just a whimper. He wants Luke inside him, wants the plug out, but instead Luke moves his hands away, concentrates instead on kissing Ambrose, on grinding his still-clothed crotch against it.

He’s undone Luke. He’s rutting up against Ambrose, thighs tense, sweat beading with the effort, spilling dirty thoughts into his ear. ‘M’gonna finger you so good, ‘til you’re even further open for me, gonna slip inside you, fuck you so fucking sweet, so hard. Make you come for me, good boy.’ 

Ambrose groans, reaches a hand down between his own legs. Luke doesn’t stop him, lifts himself half-off the bed instead, and keeps an eye on him as he strips himself down. 

He pushes his boxers down last, freeing his cock, and Devil take him, Ambrose had forgotten what a pretty cock Luke has. His mouth floods at the sight of it, curving proudly, the end already slowly pooling slick, and he wants it inside him. He keeps focus, slowly draws the plug out. He can feel Luke’s eyes on him; hear how his breath hitches as he watches. This is beyond intimate. It feels obscene, letting Luke hear the slow sucking pop as the plug leaves his body. He can see the tip of Luke’s cock glistening in the dim bedroom light, quivering as he breathes. What a beautiful sight they must make. The thought makes him grin, and he reaches, thoughtlessly, toward his own cock, to palm over it, roughly.

‘Leave it, Spellman’, Luke’s voice is hoarse, raw with want. ‘Want you to beg for it, put that pretty mouth to use.’

But Luke’s still standing, naked and delectable, at the end of the bed, one hand loose round his pretty dick. And fuck, Ambrose wants… something – anything – there’s too much distance between them, and he suddenly feels something vulnerable flare inside him. So he raises his eyebrow, and opens his mouth: 

‘Oh, but Luke’, he starts. ‘You’re far too far away from me to do anything about it, aren’t you, and I’m not a patient person.’

He palms himself, again, pushes his thumb through the puddle forming on his stomach, rubbing the slick upwards, towards his belly button. Lets a breathy moan escape his lips. 

Luke’s reaction is instantaneous, and deeply gratifying. He colours, high on his cheeks, and clicks his fingers. Immediately, Ambrose is pulled back against the bed, as if by ropes. His limbs are forced apart, legs and arms spread and held. His stomach is exposed, and a single beat of panic runs through him. He struggles, briefly, and nothing tightens – in fact the ropes slacken a little. He’s fascinated. Even whilst he’s panicking, attempting to remember a counter-spell from his addled brain, his dick stays hard, and there’s a hazy shiver of lust that runs right through him. His hips buck up against nothing, desperate, suddenly, for friction, for sensation, for more.

‘Just a little something to keep you in line, Spellman’, Luke drawls. ‘I think I could get used to you all spread out for me. Now be quiet, and let me take you to pieces’.

 

Then Luke’s everywhere on him, all at once. He can’t tell if its magic, or if Luke is just thorough, sudden and inescapable now he’s bound. He begins at Ambrose’s neck, kissing and biting marks down his body that even he won’t manage to heal before morning. He’s so taut, body thrumming with lust and tight with the ropes, and every time Luke’s teeth dig into him – the tender inside of an elbow, a spot beneath his ribs – he is certain that he will draw blood. And through it all, Luke keeps up a filthy commentary, makes Ambrose feel as if he is floating with the power and heat of it.

‘You slut. You absolute fucking whore, lying here in your aunts' house, willing me to slip my fingers into your hole. Desperate for it.’

‘Luke… please.’ He knows he’s begging, as Luke’s lips and fingers slip lower, skirting his cock, avoiding any place that will bring him too much pleasure. Luke makes good on his earlier promise, biting down Ambrose’s thighs, and it hurts so prettily that he sees stars. ‘Luke, please, please fuck me. I’ve wanted to you inside me for…’

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Luke open the cabinet; bring out a bottle of lube. Something vague in his head hopes Luke won’t notice that it’s significantly less than half full. 

Luke takes his time slicking his fingers, Ambrose can hear their wetness, and he can feel desperation building in his throat, needy, mewling. He bites his lip to try and keep quiet, keep some semblance of dignity. But his pretty whining is cut short by the feeling of Luke’s fingers at his entrance, rubbing over his hole slow and steady. He craves this, has been thinking about it since the morning, can feel Luke’s breath on his thighs. Tries to push down, but he’s held too tight.

He manages to gather the thoughts swirling round his head like bees, summon them into a barb. ‘Luke, do you need a formal introduction? Just get inside me.’ His voice is thin, breathy, but it has exactly the desired effect.

Luke grunts, a noise half frustration and half laughter, and without further ceremony, slips two fingers inside Ambrose.

Ambrose feels wrung out as Luke presses in. Luke’s digits are thick inside him, hot and exploring, crooking this way and that until Ambrose shifts, minutely, and – ‘By the dark Lord himself, you’ve got….fucking… clever…fingers.’

Luke laughs then, full and proper, keeps up the punishing rhythm he’s set. ‘I think that you, Spellman, just have a slutty little hole, and its glad to welcome anything it can get.’ He works Ambrose open, fast and brutal, and it's the best thing he’s ever felt.

He hesitates for a second, a question in his eyes, and Ambrose bears down in reply, pulling Luke’s fingers into him, then whines against the loss when Luke pulls them out. Even that second of emptiness is too much, and he’s aware that he’s straining again, unable to get purchase, unable to move as Luke lines himself up. He looks at Ambrose then, his face suddenly open, almost soft in the low light.

‘I’ve been thinking about this’, he says, and then finally, one hand braced along Ambrose’s side, kisses him as he pushes in.

By the Grand High Lord on his Throne, Luke is big. As he slips in, inch-by-inch, Ambrose feels like he might die, right there and then. The size of him, solid and unrelenting inside, makes Ambrose see starts, brings the whole world down to just that point of sensation, of joining.

‘Fuck, Spellman, do you feel good’, Luke breathes above him, sliding home. He stays, waits a second, one hand cupped around Ambrose’s cheek, until he nods, and licks his lips, grinning up at him. ‘You doing ok?’

‘I’m not made of glass’, he whispers, afraid his voice will wobble if he tries to speak. ‘I want to feel this tomorrow.’

‘You’, Luke says, dipping down to kiss him, grinding his lips hard, ‘you’re gonna feel this next week.’

And then Luke pulls out, hesitates for just a second, tips Ambrose the prettiest, dirtiest wink he’s ever seen, and sets about fucking the living daylights out of him.

It’s overwhelming, the stretch and burn, the speed, and Ambrose can’t stop smiling. His cock is twitching, and he’s desperate for some friction, leaving little strings of slick on Luke’s stomach as he fucks into him. There are fireworks building at the base of his spine as Luke hits that spot over and over, each time he pushes in, breathing some new, dirty little phrase over Ambrose.

Its impossible, the intensity, the way they are sweating together, and pretty soon, Luke’s breath is ragged, and he reaches down between them, gathering Ambrose into his hand. ‘Come on, pretty warlock’, he murmurs. ‘I want to see you come on my cock.’

And a few gentle, petting strokes, so at odds with the desperate rhythm of sex, is all it takes to undo Ambrose. He shudders, pleasure crashing over him in waves, and comes hot and long in the narrow press of their bodies.

Luke’s rhythm falters then, and he presses in once, twice more, before he shudders his climax deep inside Ambrose. He groans, deep and deeply filthy, and he clicks his fingers so the ropes disappear, letting Ambrose’s arms and legs free as he cries his name out.

It's the most beautiful sound Ambrose thinks he’s ever heard. 

They lie there together afterwards, quiet in the soft light, bodies slowly sticking together. Ambrose can’t quite bring himself to mind.

Eventually, Luke stands to leave. He can’t stay here, can’t exactly wander down to breakfast tomorrow morning, but the look he gives Ambrose says that, perhaps, he wishes he could.

‘Another time, I hope’, Ambrose whispers, as Luke leans down to press an unexpectedly tender kiss to his mouth.

‘You’ve got a whole cabinet, Spellman. Silly not to work our way through it.’ 

And with that, Luke disappears into the night. Ambrose rolls his shoulders, clicks the lights off, and settles down. He’s still grinning as he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos absolutely make my day - I do adore writing in this fandom, and hope you enjoyed!


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